


Of Course, Of Course

by shiphitsthefan



Series: SPN Coldest Hits [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of but not really), (technically? I think?), Animal Transformation, Anthropomorphic, Awkward Conversations, Birthday Sex, Bottom Bobby, Bottom Rufus, Crack Treated Seriously, Everyone's Bisexual and Nothing Hurts, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Fuck Or Die, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pony Play, Sex Pollen, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top Bobby, Top Rufus, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t kiss. They don’t cuddle afterward, just fall onto their respective sides of the bed and pass out, still sticky but sated. They don’t even do more than clap each other on the shoulder before they leave. But every time Rufus introduces him as his partner at a crime scene, Bobby straightens up a little more. Likewise, when Bobby does the same, Rufus feels his stomach flip-flop.</p><p>And apparently, when Bobby calls him in the middle of the goddamn night and needs him, Rufus comes running.</p><p>***</p><p>Rufus has no idea what they are to each other; Bobby has no idea what he is to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Course, Of Course

**Author's Note:**

> My utmost gratitude to [Amelia_Clark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark/works) and [LoversAntiquities](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities/works) for checking the gait on this. <3
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.

 

 

_beautiful cover art by[Mayalaen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayalaen/pseuds/Mayalaen/works)_

 

Rufus has been back from a hunt for two hours, and in bed asleep for about half of that. He pulled himself out of the shower after scrubbing himself for thirty minutes. Damn witch had exploded into a cloud of goo all over him, but not before getting off some curse that hasn’t hit yet, which means he gets to live in dread at least through next week. Still, Rufus was able to fall into bed damp and fall asleep with near immediacy.

Now it’s—he opens and rubs one eye before glancing over into the red glare of the numbers on the motel’s ancient alarm clock—2:17am, and his pager is going off. Rufus is tempted to chuck the thing into the wastebasket across the room, but his luck, it would keep at it. So he sighs and dials out on the rotary on the tilting bedside table.

“This is Hendrix, Agent-in-Charge.”

“Roger Nelson, reporting in,” he mumbles drearily into the receiver. “Got your page.”

“I need you back at headquarters _now,_ Special Agent Nelson.”

“Call Clapton,” Rufus suggests. “He’s on the clock. Shit, he’s always on the clock.”

“Dammit, Nels,” Bobby hisses into the phone, “I need your eyes on this situation and absolutely no one else’s.”

“Fuck, man, it’s officially my birthday, and so far all I’ve done is celebrate with a witch-shaped piñata. No candy, just a rain of crap. I’m off-duty until Johnny Walker says otherwise.”

Bobby shouts, “I’m gonna cram that bottle up your goddamn ass if you don’t get here in the next five hours.”

“I’m eight hours out from you!” Rufus licks his lips, thinking as quickly as the sleep-addled gears in his brain will turn, then adds, “Also Shabbat starts at sundown.”

“Then you best start drivin’, Sobchak.” And with that, Bobby hangs up.

Rufus sighs and rubs his hand down his face, resigned to his fate. Maybe he’ll at least get birthday sex out of it. More than likely, though, all he’ll get is trouble.

 

***

 

He has plenty of time to think as he rumbles down the highway in an ancient rust-and-blue Ford flatbed. Rufus has something of an overactive, creative mind, which helps when piecing together clues on a hunt, but serves mostly as a distraction any time else. Right now, though, he’s monofocused on this weird-ass relationship between him and Bobby.

Rufus still doesn’t know what they are to each other. They’ve been hunting partners off and on for years now, but it never got physical until that mutant bee hive they took out last spring in California. He and Bobby got covered in pollen and didn’t realize how fucked they were until...well, until they had to fuck the fever out of each other. They’d both grudgingly admitted over greasy eggs and bitter diner coffee that it was the best sex of their lives—

“I loved Karen,” Bobby said, squeezing his fingers beneath the band of his ratty baseball cap to rub at his forehead.

“Sure you did,” Rufus replied, nodding.

“Sex was vanilla at best, though. And she wasn’t...she tried to be interested, and I tried not to push, but I’ve been good friends with my hand for a long damn time now.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You know I ain’t ever slept with a man ‘til last night, Rufus,” said Bobby, swallowing hard. “I never even looked at one.”

Rufus kept right on nodding. “Sure you haven’t.”

“And I mean…” Bobby sighed heavily and looked pained. “You know how I feel about men with men and women with women. I got raised with the good book.”

“Sure, yeah, we all did.”

“But fuckin’ _hell_ , Rufus. You know how to treat a lady right.”

“Thanks, I think,” Rufus laughed before admitting, “This is pretty new to me, too. You think you white folks talk tough on gay sex? Take a step into my neighborhood and see how far a hankie gets you.”

“So, what. You been attracted but never acted?”

“Not often, and always on the DL.” Rufus shrugged. “Prince can only do so much good in the world.”

Bobby hummed. “Yeah, all we got’s Elton John, and I ain’t wearin’ sequins.”

“Bobby,” said Rufus, leaning in, “I can fuck you six ways from Sunday without sequins.”

“Well thank God for that,” Bobby said with a crooked grin.

—and that was it. Conversation over. They never talked about it again, not between themselves and certainly not with other hunters. One of them would call the other up, they’d go hunt, gank the son of a bitch, then fuck out the adrenaline back in the motel. After a slightly awkward breakfast the next morning, they went their separate ways.

Now here Rufus is, watching the sun come up as he speeds down the road, hoping this is some weirdly urgent booty call. Because he’d never imagined before that having sex with a bearded grump would be spectacular, but it is. Rufus thinks about that first night nearly every time he makes friends with his own hand—how Bobby lay under him, flushed with embarrassment, panting as much as he cursed; how easy and right it felt to slow down and jack him off while Bobby tried to figure out what to do with his own hands, a phobic man completely overwhelmed by first-hand experience; how they went for hours, endurance bolstered by the pollen, slick with sweat and each other’s spend; how Bobby’s swearing soon gave way to moans and “harder”s and “faster, Rufus, I ain’t gonna break!”

He coughs and adjusts himself as he drives.

They don’t kiss. They don’t cuddle afterward, just fall onto their respective sides of the bed and pass out, still sticky but sated. They don’t even do more than clap each other on the shoulder before they leave. But every time Rufus introduces him as his partner at a crime scene, Bobby straightens up a little more. Likewise, when Bobby does the same, Rufus feels his stomach flip-flop.

And apparently, when Bobby calls him in the middle of the goddamn night and needs him, Rufus comes running.

 

***

 

Rufus pulls into Singer Salvage exactly six hours and thirteen minutes after Bobby’s call. Sure enough, Bobby pokes his head out the door and shouts, “You’re late.”

“And you’re lucky to have me at all,” Rufus says as he jumps out of the truck, slamming the dented door. “I’ve barely slept and I haven’t eaten in damn near a day. But here I am.”

“Well get in here already!”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Rufus, boots crunching through the gravel, “hold your horses, I’m comin’.”

“Don’t say that,” Bobby tells him, retreating back into his house and letting the screen door close behind him.

“Don’t say what?”

“And don’t stare.”

Rufus rolls his eyes and pulls open the door. “Don’t stare at—oh.”

Bobby sighs and pulls off his hat. “That ain’t half of it.”

“Oh.”

After standing and looking at each other for several uncomfortable breaths, Bobby asks, “Is that all you got to say about this?”

Rufus honestly doesn’t know what to say, because his hunting partner and maybe more than casual fuck buddy has a tail the same color as his whiskers, which look much softer and shinier than usual. There are two rounded nubs of horn protruding from his head. Bobby’s ears are a similar reddish brown, long and pointed, flicking back and forth in agitation. He’s not wearing pants, but he does have on a long work apron, which Rufus probably shouldn’t be finding the most confusing aspect of the whole situation.

“Who’d you piss off and why are you part horse?” is the best question Rufus comes up with.

“Haven’t hunted in a coupla months,” Bobby says, exasperated, “and I woke up last night to go siphon the tank and found out I was a satyr.”

After a few more seconds of silence, Rufus asks, “Well are you gonna invite me in or are we gonna bicker all day in your doorway?” He smirks before adding, “Or do I need to put you out to pasture?”

“Rufus, shut the hell up.”

Bobby turns around and heads toward the living room, and now Rufus is even more distracted. His bare ass is as fine as always—and wasn’t that a surprise, finding out there was a nice butt under those old-as-Moses jeans?—but the tail is magnificent. Well, as far as tails go, Rufus figures, but regardless, it’s long and lovely and he suddenly wants to run his hand through it. He tries not to wonder how it would feel wrapped around his arm while he slowly fingers Bobby open, what sound he might make if Rufus tugged on it, but he is completely failing. In fact, Rufus is failing so hard that he’s thinking about how it might feel trailing down his chest and across his cock and—

“Rufus,” Bobby starts tiredly, glancing at him over his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“You got a thing for tails or somethin’?”

Rufus raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “Not that I knew of until right this minute.”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t shame me, Bobby, not after you paged me to call a _salon_ and shoot the shit during a damn pedicure.”

Bobby narrows his eyes. “They’re relaxing.”

“They’re gay.”

“I’m already takin’ it up the ass from you, you...you _idjit!_ ” yells Bobby, throwing his arms out. “Might as well treat myself if I’m gonna bounce around on the Kinsey.”

Rufus blinks and asks, “The fuck’s a Kinsey?”

“Forget it. Now, here,” Bobby says, picking up a hefty tome. He hands it over to Rufus and indicates a passage, which he starts reading as Bobby interrogates him. “What kind of witch did you fight?”

“Oh, y’know, one of those New Age-y types. Spin a wheel, pick a parthenon, mix and match your traditions.” Rufus scans a bit more of the Greek text. “Another fuck cure? Well ain’t it my lucky day.”

“You gotta be the girl.”

“Switchin’s fine with me, you’re the one with preferences. Besides,” he adds impishly, “It don’t matter who tops, Bobby, you’ll always be the girl.”

Bobby ignores him. “Did you get any indication about who...she?”

Rufus looks up at Bobby. “He.”

“Okay, _he_ worshipped specifically?”

“I think…” Rufus bites his lip as he thinks. “Uh, maybe Circe? Hecate? Actually, there was a lotta Greek symbology on his altar, so maybe a...Medean tradition or something?”

“Well it is a Medean curse, so that works out.”

Rufus’ mouth goes dry. “Oh.”

“Great, here you go with the ‘oh’ again,” says Bobby, looking heavenward. “What now?”

And Rufus hesitates, because he honestly hadn’t put it together. The book in his hands is suddenly riveting.

“Rufus.”

“I...The witch I fought last night might have thrown a curse at me.”

“At you?” asks Bobby. “Then why—”

“Not me specifically, I just...I hadn’t really thought about it, but he didn’t curse me, he cursed my…”

“For shit’s sake, Rufus, he cursed your _what?_ ”

Rufus takes a deep breath and then tells him very quietly, “My lover.”

Now it’s Bobby’s turn to pause and say, “Oh,” followed swiftly by, “Is that...are we…?”

“I was thinkin’ about it on the way here. Guess now I know why.”

“‘It?’”

“Our…” Rufus shakes his head slightly, looking for words. “Relationship. Our partnership.”

Bobby nods. “That last one. I like that. Partnership.”

“So we’re partners then?”

And there’s the crooked grin Rufus remembers from their first awkward breakfast. “Always have been.”

Rufus feels like this might be a kissing moment—he knows that, if he and his wife were still together, it would be—but they’ve never kissed before. Licked, bitten, sucked, sure, but never kissed. Kissing makes it official; it seals the deal, signs the pact.

Makes it real.

Bobby takes the decision out of Rufus’ hands and leans in, pulls Rufus to him and kisses him like it’s their last hunt. The book clatters to the floor and Rufus never thought he’d like to feel someone else’s beard on his face, and he knows that any other time it would be scratchy and patched with stubble, but with the curse it’s silken and smooth. Bobby tastes like whiskey, which is perfect, and it’s a rough-and-tumble, push-and-shove, take-no-survivors kind of a lip lock, which is even _more_ perfect.

It progresses quickly to Rufus’ fingers in Bobby hair—avoiding his tail for now, but not long if he has anything to say about it—and Bobby’s hands on Rufus’ ass, pulling them together into a grind and—

Rufus pulls back with a, “Wait a minute, hang on.”

Bobby tenses. “Oh.”

“Don’t you start.”

“So the…” Bobby grimaces. “The tail, that’s not the only reason I don’t have pants on.”

“I thought maybe you were just happy to see me.”

“Rufus,” says Bobby as he starts to untie his work apron, “I have had—”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“—c’mon, focus.”

“Trust me, Bobby, you have my full attention.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Look, all I know is that I woke up in the middle of the night four inches longer and hard as hell and it’s been this way ever since.”

“You tried jerkin’ it?” asks Rufus, managing to tear his eyes away.

“Rufus, I come, and it doesn’t go away.”

“And how long is this supposed to last?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” Bobby says. “All the book said is that I have to fuck someone, preferably my partner, and you’re the only one I’ve been lyin’ with, so I figured I better call you up.”

“No wonder you were upset.”

Bobby frowns. “I wasn’t upset.”

“Yeah, guess not.” Rufus flicks his eyes up to the top of Bobby’s head and says, “More like ‘horny’.”

“Go to hell, Rufus.” Bobby quickly adds, “But we’re gonna screw first, these ears are drivin’ me nuts.”

“So what you’re saying,” Rufus begins, licking his lips and diverting back to the matter at groin, “is that we have to fuck an unknown number of times until you change back?”

“That seems to be the gist of it, yeah.”

Rufus smiles widely. “Well happy birthday to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write Bobby/Rufus for a long, long time. Thanks to the [SPN Coldest Hits May prompt](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/143263028075/may-posting-dates-13-15-may-may-rules-reblog) "birthday fairytale" for finally making me do it.
> 
> (If you're curious about all of the deleted comments, part of the [SPN Coldest Hits](spncoldesthits.tumblr.com) competition involves promo wars. Since comments are worth the most number of points a piece (and the person with the _lowest_ score wins the game), this leads to a metric fuckton of spam. I dislike Spam intensely and have thus trashed those comments entirely.)
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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